may the grandmaster be ever in your favor
by toavengeme
Summary: Loki has an army. Let Ragnarok begin. . . Features Loki, Red Skull, Sigyn, Karnilla, Ronan, Guillotine, Doctor Strange, Taskmaster, The Enchantress, and other Marvel characters.
1. Red Skull l

**A/N:**  
Chapter 1-9: Recruitment  
Chapter 10: Interlude  
Chapters 11-XX: Training and Machinations [and Bickering]  
Epilogue: Opening Night

 _Ensemble team featuring Loki, Red Skull, Sigyn, Karnilla, Hela, Ronan, Guillotine, Doctor Strange, and Taskmaster. Appearances from The Enchantress and other Marvel characters._

* * *

 **1\. RED SKULL l**

He has the smile of a hyena, the eyes of a fox, the majesty of an owl, and the body of marble and silver columns. Here, in the skewed valley of degraded metal and sooty ashes, I rise to meet my creator. Or should I say my _re_ creator?

"Johann Shmidt, step forward." I do. All I can think of is how strange it feels to have a body again, and how I stand before someone who is much stronger than I. "Do you know who I am?" the albumen white sorcerer asks with a crinkled sort of smirk behind the shade of his hood.

"No, sir."

"Do you know from whence I brought you out?"

I have a faint idea. Flags with a red base and a white circle and some square-ish lines flash behind my eyes, then there's a bright blue fire that burns but not quite, then darkness. The feeling of toes twitching in my boots derails me from uncovering the facts for myself. I settle with: "No, sir."

The gentlemen in the charcoal coat and jewels of ancient times at the edges pushes down his hood. Lucid blue tourmaline eyes match mine. "I am Loki. I am he who collected your soul from the dust of this realm and gave you life anew. Ask not how, for it is no matter you must know. You may ask me two questions, two alone. Choose wisely."

My chest flutters as if I ran a mile. "My...my god." The bloody bastard of ancient times grins slightly. "Loki Odinson, of the Norse legends?"

He casts a dreadfully bored glance away from me into the dark horizon. "Is that your first question?"

"No! No, I...I am smitten, Prince of Ages." I remember Loki as the God of Mischief (I say God of Chaos), one of immeasurable power with a mind as vast as Yggdrasil itself, so I know he means it that I have only two questions to ask him. How to phrase them so I receive more than five word answers is the tricky business.

"Would you please elaborate of my becoming?"

The god tosses a titanium dagger with three peculiar gems encased in the handle up, then catches it, then stashes it inside his draping coat as he walks circles around me. He walks like mountains.

"At the end of your battle with Sir Rogers, you fell between the realms with which I presume was the Tesseract. In your mortal foolishness you allied with the Titanian called Thanos when he found you, but in the realms there is none so overconfident in their so-called talents than Midgardians. You became of no use naturally, so here you were left behind until the dying heart of this cooled nova gorged on your soul. I know of this because I hold your memories. I raised you with my blood, and left you with the memories I need you to remember. Second question."

"What am I to call you?"

He stops, then untwines his steps until he faces me again. His skin looks so cold this close that a shock of ice splits up my spine. "You will call me Captain, who is also your god and your surrogate father. Thus, you will obey me in all I say and never ask a question without my permission, understood?"

But 'Captain' sounds so small for such a giant. I grin and salute him, saying: "Yes, _Führer_."

Power grins because he knows something I don't, but I pardon it. After all, his power could be mine by honor. A being of my dreams exists indeed, and I have found his favor.

"I afford you another question, child. I see it burn in you."

To think back to all my faith and consider now where I stand before a god all called me foolish for believing in indulged the child in me.

"What is my purpose?" I ask, and whatever his answer is will be _schwarzwälder kirschtorte_ to my soul.

His eyes flicker over my body, then land on mine again. He stands taller, chin balancing a whole world proudly. "You are my soldier. You will fight for a future without flags." Then he slips out his dagger, which I now notice holds his blood.

Sweet, powerful blood of _the_ God of Chaos.

He offers it to me before he turns to trace a path I don't know. "Come, Johann. We have much to prepare."

I steal the blood off his dagger for my own red fingers, then smear it under my eyes. A mark of war. All will know who I serve, and my devotion will not be thwarted.

My _Führer_ is a mile ahead of me, so I run as fast as I can to catch up, ignoring the tingles shocking a body still not used to being put together again.

. . .

 **TBC**


	2. Sigyn l

**2\. SIGYN l**

Mortals are such precious creatures like olives in a martini except they are the olives that spice everything up yet they are futile in the grand scale of the universe because you crave the drink not the olives at least that is what a being with a healthy mind would crave.

I like to say lots'a stories and lots'a words; the only time I shuts it up is when I magic it out I loathe the word magic because I am an Aesir whose power is Seidr which is so much more badass than magic I mean you're not born with magic like a bone – everyone can learn it if they throw in some sweat (and sometimes blood that may or may not be your own) but with Seidr you are and it is like a bone that you keep using until it becomes a walloping elephant tusk I say elephant tusk because mortals understand that but it is in honest a million times bigger than that why am I still thinking about mortals?

Martinis.

Oh Norns this drink is abhorrent. It requires more aloe and honey hear hear I told Voltrex the manager of this pandemoniac bar this crucial flaw when I had my last trip here but does a nornsdamned Kymellian with a yard long nose and ridiculous 6-foot legs listen to a witch like me, no no no, because the nornsdamned man with a yard long nose and ridiculous 6-foot-legs believes he is stronger than a sorceress who could set his pitiful bar on fire worse than a sun with a snap of my perfect fingers but Hel this desperately needs more aloe and honey, I mean I told Voltrex the manager of this pandemoniac bar this—

Holy. Helheim.

Why, who is that outrageously stunning personage mine little eyes spy? Thither he treads. I am fetching me a scrumptious walking martini!

He has a great black cloak that sways behind each step like the oceans of the Void but of course that is a terrible metaphor because the Void has nothing in it but darkness that kills any living mind I always wanted to travel it because come now if anything is that terrible of a place then I want to experience it myself I mean have you ever stepped into a place that has a-trillion-and-two dimensions one second and the next another trillion-and-two at least that is what our professors did not teach us during our Yggdrasil study years they never taught us anything we needed to know like how to bite your finger off and regenerate it when galaxy vermin sting you to death I would generate a pink-skinned finger so I could start looking like a patchwork goddess patchwork is tragically lovely like the broken quilts and shards of time in the Void I stole some glances from.

Wait. Stop. What was I doing? Why am I running? Where am I?

Oh yes, walking martini!

I must assert, the moment I abandoned my seat that trove of Valhalla started walking faster oh no no no slow down you ravishing being, I—

Well well, I must have stepped in a rabbit hole. Strange, I felt no rift there is usually a rift unless this is an illusion which it is not because Norns help me the _smell_. Right, I am in a valley. Red sky, decomposing corpses of trolls, umm, broken stone castles to the right in the distance this is not too unfamiliar but this particular wasteland I have not seen so it is very unfamiliar.

...

Alright, use the full capacity of that mind of yours, Asgardian. Are you in the Nine Realms? ...Mm, so to speak, yes. Perhaps a realm or two off the atmosphere still tingles like that of the Nine Realm's therefore yes I am somewhere around the Nine. Which of them is the closest to mine? Well, I spot Helheim's lack of a constellation thither in the sky that is blue but more like a blue that is in quite a conundrum. Considering the decaying corpses of trolls I wish to conclude that this is an offshoot of it like a smaller bubble traveling next to a bigger bubble.

Ah-ha! Behold the precious white lace agates forming from the grotesque bones of trolls thank the Norns for all the silicon dioxiode fogging this most peculiar realm did I really just use the word "grotesque" in a sentence I must be crazier than usual today now let us see if I can pluck one for myself.

"I pray you know the bubble analogy is utter drivel."

"Affirmative. This is more likely a deceased nova or a waning moon but I am quite fond of the bubble analogy for it gives the darling mental image of..."

Wait. Odin, damn it! I swore there was no other soul here. I peek over my shoulder.

"Oh. My. Hello there."

The now-sorcerer I followed has his charcoal coat swaying in the slight pungent breeze, raven black locks tied back into a most enticing male bun he is lovelier than I thought and he seems to read my thoughts for the corner of those thin pastel lips of his curve into a smile.

"Hello there too, grave-robber."

I wait for him to continue but the lovely apparition who appears familiar makes no move that he will thus I go back to plucking my agates because it is not every day a lady like I receives the blessing of becoming filthy rich in a troll graveyard yet while I'm down salvaging of course it is my mouth that will not give up plucking him either.

"You know you appear awfully familiar I suppose you have a name yes of course a face like yours would have a name mine is Sigyn I am a sorceress as well so do not try anything special that I do not approve of which I will approve of if you ask for I am an open being and I hope you know how to take me back but just so you know I do not mind too much that I have been whisked off to a troll graveyard by a not-so-strange face say you are not a prince are you because you have that strut that screams 'I am a prince' which all the maidens swoon over including myself. Alfheim? Hmm, possible but you do not have the pointy ears which each elf has what about Vanir I hate Vanir so I wish you not to answer if you are because I would rather like you let's see white skin regal visage holy Hel I cannot place my finger on it wait..." I spin around crouched where I am with a lap full of agates.

He drops in front of me with an exasperated glare, covering my mouth before I could continue speaking. "I thought it a rumor that you could speak for such lengths. Now listen closely. I am Loki of Asg—"

When I get excited I bite so I bite his fingers and he flings his hand off my mouth and jumps back with a shocked (Norns so lovely) face which excites me even more because who else can say they bit a prince?

"HOLY HELHEIM. PRINCE LOKI! Norns you are evermore pleasing to the eyes, more so up close in person I saw you at Thor's coronation however I was but a young maiden who yet did not clout her head a little too hard on her solo expeditions oh dragon bones that may be the worst event I can mention wait how did you not die when you fell into the Void or am I not supposed to ask oh gods can I kiss you I mean you look so kissable and by kissable I mean totally pissed off that I bit you I truly apologize about that but like I said I had some interesting complications develop on adventure number 996 and have thus developed some strange habits like biting when inappropriate and developing episodes of vertigo at the slightest movements I take too quick and forgetting my train of thought because of generous aneurysms bruising my brain tissue and you should mute me now because I cannot stop talking I mean I never expected to face an ACTUAL prince of—"

With an abrupt wave of his fingers I find my lips can no longer move. He lets out a deep sigh he struggles to hide the fact that he wants to roll his eyes.

"I have heard of your power on your little expeditions, likewise your...conditions. You are nonetheless one of the few sorcerers who hones their Seidr not like an ornament but as another part of your body.

"I am on an expedition myself, and I am here to ask you if you would join me. Answer my request in five words or less now." He frees my lips with a blink.

"Yes," is all I say.

He eyes me with crystal eyes drenched in suspicion. "Just 'yes'?"

"Yes."

He shifts as if there's a chip in his foot. "Right then, I offer to answer two questions, two alone."

"Is it likely that we may die on this said expedition?"

Then I see why he's still shifting. He is not fond of maimed corpses oozing blackish-green slime anywhere around him still he stoops in front of me paling at the smell I am quite accustomed to stuck between a stage of hurry and patience Norns he is such a darling. "It is a highly likely possibility; I am working to reduce it."

"Fantastic may I kiss you now?"

"No," he says with a dash of annoyance but he can't hide that lovely smirk from me then the muting spell is back on. "You are to call me Captain whether or not we are training. Understood? Just nod."

I shake my head he doesn't seem to notice then he continues speaking with that warming voice of his he then begins his walk with that signature Prince Loki strut and I follow with my apron full of agates until he pulls open a portal that leads us...see here, directions are not my forte I cannot tell where.

Damn it all he did not take my agates through but he let me take chips of sliming bones I smell like dead trolls my hair looks like a rat's nest and I...ohhhhh...there goes my vertigo in which I find myself falling into his arms but he appears he is amused by it with that smile tugging at the corner of his suave lips oh my gods I clasp to the hope that he is as mad as rumors have it please oh please oh please I hope he is if not I shall make him.

Smile child! It is time for adventure number 4,392.

. . .

 **TBC**


	3. Karnilla l

**3\. Karnilla I**

Mm-hm. Called it.

Just because I say little don't mean I know little. Princeling should'a known. By the looks of it, he didn't.

I turn from knittin' another armor enhancement before his feet step through the arch. He stops in the frame.

"How is it you know I come to you?"

"Queen of the Norns knows all, sugar." He tries to pretend he ain't bothered, steps inside, and closes our door behind him.

"You lookin' weary, boy. Sit and eat something."

He walks on towards his jammed bookshelf, peering up to the top. "I am well, Karnilla. Carry on." He reaches up to his scrawling journal and it falls into his hand. He gets on with flippin' and pacin' and it makes _me_ tired.

I snap and his armor goes to my pocket dimension. Good. Where I may upgrade it well enough for once. Another snap and a bubbling mimosa appears in my grasp.

"Sit. Now."

I don't have'ta turn around to know when he barely manages to not roll his eyes. "I said I am well."

"Set your tush down before I set it down for you." Ever the Trickster, he moves to sit at his desk. "Nope. On that couch, boy. Right in front of me."

He plops down. Finally. What a surprise: without his journal.

"There. Now I better see you drink six'a these goblets. That backside ain't moving till you do."

I make a mimosa for myself. Might as well relish his misery. Speaking of misery, he's sure lookin' like it.

"Blimey, that weight's just melting off you. You look like a horrible excuse for a scarecrow." He's about to talk back like usual, but I point a finger at him. "Uh-uh, you ain't talkin' till you done drinkin'." He gives me a mild sneer, but it don't match my glare.

With a wave five more goblets await him on the odd, small table. A quarter way through his second drink he quits his scowling. Halfway through his third his eyes start drooping a bit. Finally, the moment he finishes downing the drops of his last, he lays down.

I toss my glass against the wall, where it shatters into smoke that disappears, then I peel my blanket off the bed I sleep in most.

"I am taking a breather, not a nap," he mumbles once I drape it over him.

"No, you're taking a nap. Even you need 'em." I take his boots and socks off next. "Norns, you took the smell of dead trolls with you. Don't get moving."

While I go about gathering dried soap-lotion, warm water, and towels, he keeps talking. "T'was a troll graveyard. How did that form?"

"Well, did it feel like Helheim?"

"Yes and no. It had a similar constellation and echoes of its energy, but it wasn't it."

"You know there are many dimensions... Didn't you take Talkie there?" I ask as I start with cleansing the worst of the grime off his feet.

"Karnilla, I do not need a foot massage," he says, and whisks 'em under the blanket. I pick 'em back up.

"You need lots'a things you say you don't, like sleep. Hold still."

"I am not tired and no, I do what I want."

"'Course, that yawn you're hiding ain't got nothing to do with being tired." I start anyways. "Your feet might as well be rocks."

"Mmhm... Dwarves would kill for them."

I _almost_ don't catch the laugh in my throat. "Whatever."

He props himself up with his arms, devious as the devil Himself. "Aren't you in a good mood. No chiding my ego?"

"My yellin' means I care about you. Right now I don't."

Norns, I hate that smirk. I hate it with all my guts. It's that dippy curve up in the corner of his lips that says he damn knows the truth. "Fair enough." He leans back again, eyes closed. "As for your prior question: No, I tried to take her to Svartalfheim."

"Must have been a shift in Yggdrasil. There's too many things changin' at once."

"Jordmungand wakes as well."

I cover his newly warmed feet again, then take a seat on the table. "One manipulation at a time. Let me see that wrist." He extends his arm to me. I push up a bloodied forest green tunic sleeve. "Botchy."

He nods about the deep cut on his wrist. It's green and orange and purple and black and puffy and hot. "I was rather preoccupied with containing his memories."

"Botchy job at that too. I had to tie up your loose threads," I say while revivifying the layers of his wrist claimed by black magic. "While you was recruiting Talkie there he ran around yelling for 'Zola'."

"Ah, yes. The man was his assistant on Midgard. Pity I could not muster enough energy to fetch that one too."

"Why, he still his assistant?"

Loki smiles as I cover his healed arm again. "In a different form and a different way. It is quite a remarkable achievement for a mortal I must say."

I bring out his armor from his pocket dimension, and start weaving charms next to him. "Whatever. I advise you to bring your team to balance, now. You got a worshiper, a blabberer, and a saint. Find somebody between."

To which the princeling rises, arms tense. "I am capable of leading my team, Karnilla, which you are a part of. I have no need for your assistance besides dire circumstances."

I don't stop weaving. It ain't news that he is a contumacious jackanape, just like his Pops.

"Forgive me for stepping on toes, _Captain_."

The princeling scratches his head, taps his feet. It takes a few minutes before he says what's on his mind.

"Would you...happen to have any suggestions?"

"Uhh-hhu."

"It would help—"

"Uhh-hhu."

Then he considers me for once. Catches onto the purple prisms I weave together, then constrict into little crystals, then expand again.

His ridiculous bun makes him look like a smiling princess in drag. "You clever dame."

"Mmm-hmm."

"And if it takes black magic again?"

I keep weaving but meet his gaze. Oh, I know he knows. "Mmm-hmm."

He rubs his hands together, a stupid grin stretching across ghostly fair skin. "I owe you all of Yggdrasil."

"The Hel you do," I murmur, but I ain't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing my leap-century smiles. He hurries to his wardrobe. "You'd better put on thicker clothes too. I ain't up to coddling an icicle."

"Hush, dear Karnilla. What queen does not love to pamper a prince?"

I glare at him changing his shirt and coat. "Ones that have to deal with you."

"Then I will leave now as to make you deal less for a while." He pops up his collar and rushes to the door. "Do not wait on me for late feast."

"Good, one less yapper to feed."

I move to sit on the couch, lay back, and weave enhancements in beautiful silence. That is, five seconds of it. Talkie comes in.

"Evening Karnilla how is the mending going I am awfully bored I think it loathsome that we get bored do you know where Delectable was off to I was hoping we could have a game night during feast..."

Great thing is as the Queen of the Norns I can smite her. Yup, snap her neck right in half...I don't feel like it.

"Shush, pick up a piece of his armor, and get a'weaving."

She gasps in that idiotically dramatic way half the population of those air-headed Bereets do.

"Just because I am a sorceress does not mean that I want to volunteer my talents to something so trivial as upgrading armor why does he need armor have you seen his power because I have seen his power mind you just a portion but still you have no idea what he can pull out of those veins what can you pull out of your veins since you're a Queen and all?..." And on and on and on she goes.

Aye.

She should have white hair and pink skin, but no she gotta be blessed with perfect milky skin and a fiery pink dragon's nest of hair that looks good no matter how she turns. Too bad she screws it all up with mismatching obnoxious face paint.

Witch...

. . .

 **TBC**


	4. Hela l

**4\. HELA l**

If I could ever be bored, then I am most bored on my throne. There's only so much morbid black and white even the Queen of the dead can stand.

With a wave my regal white pathway becomes a flaming bright mixture of crimson and beet red. Then there's the matter of the looming, boring charcoal walls. Bleeding prune fits better; appears less conspicuous. I flip through a catalogue of brown colors for the couches clothed with plastic scattered around corners and overflowing bookshelves until I find the tone between burned orange and Vanaheim wood brown takes my fancy. Charcoal black seeps up over the bookshelves instead.

As for my throne? I don't care enough for it, but I do quite feel like neon lime looks better than the faded sky blue my dress is.

Then I'm bored again. I look out of my windows that look like claw scratches to see the Valley of the Dead. An outbreak of Virus-OA has brought a new pool of Frost Giants with that same infected blood type. Norns they look dreadful, like spoiled cakes with twelve bubbling slime layers about to topple over. See, I call that particular Virus "consumption" since it quite literally eats away muscles and veins until the Jötunn is but a hollow shell with putrefying bones.

Norns, I so hate my curse...

"Edgwen," I call after striking the floor with my staff.

My companion of old greets me behind colossal neon crimson doors. "Yes my Queen?"

"Please bring some cards and let's play rounds. I'm bored as Helheim."

"But I am expecting a new group of Jötnar, at least 60."

"They can wait. They are dead. Pleeeease darling, before my mind is undone in these bowels of Yggdrasil."

He chuckles. His white and ashy bangs that look more like calcium buildup scratch the skin peeling off his forehead in flakes. "More like waste basket, my Queen."

"Yes, thank you for the sour reminder. Your sarcasm is astounding."

"I did have a wonderful master to learn from."

And I can't help the awkward twist of my heart. It makes me feel like I'm being crammed into a trunk. "Yes...as did I."

My good friend clears his throat and waves, bringing out four different sets of cards from his pocket dimension. "Which set do you feel like playing with today?"

"You choose this time. I always choose."

"Very well. I say the baroque style alongside the velvet vintage sets would match our moods this time. Both made in Muspelheim, my Queen."

"Are they heavier than they appear?"

"Indeed." My companion of half bone and half flesh steps up to my throne after he slips elbow-long gloves over both arms, his hand outstretched. "May I have the utmost honor of escorting my Queen to the table?"

I accept his cracking and shuttering boney fingers and rise. "Oh hush, they who grow and then are cursed to while away alongside me need not call me Queen. You know that."

He waits until I sit before he takes a seat. Then he's shuffling both decks of the day in turns. "Whoever said spending my days with my friend and her keeping me alive beyond my expiration is a curse?"

"Come now, be honest. Just because we shared a playroom and a kingdom in our minds does not mean you should still be passive about becoming the keeper of the disgraced dead alongside me." His gaze flicks up to me. "I am not in a mood, Edgwen. I am serious."

His crackling fingers realign our decks. "Hela, I could never have asked for a better friend. I knew full well what I was doing when I stepped forward to protect you, thus 'cursing' myself with you. The past is the past, it cannot be changed, however I do not regret a thing."

I stare at the flakes of discolored skin curling off where he isn't wearing fillers to cover his skull.

"My spells aren't holding up like they used to."

"That is not your fault. I amplify them and focus the energy to my senses."

I catch his hand between mine when he sets down my deck. "But what if I let you go?"

He gives me an unamused glare. "Go where? I will still be here, just as a mummy like the rest of them. Blind, deaf, unresponsive...that would not be better. Added, I do not want to go. We have discussed this, Hela. I will be by your side as long as Yggdrasil needs our balance."

I let go and stare, trying to recall what a lovely child he had once been. A toddler barely up to my shoulders with hair as sweet and pleasing to look at like honey, eyes of sapphires, cheeks of the sands of Muspelheim...I inherited my, uh, father's height and lithely frame. Not such a beauty as Edgwen had once been.

Now he is well over 59,000 years old, with myself being close to 60,000.

"Ready?" he asks. I pick up my cards and split them as needed for Speed. I set a two of hearts over his ace of hearts while he stocks up a column of black spades.

"How fare the Roots?"

"As well as can be considering what's coming. 78% of the new scars have been mended, however. The Bargaining Demons have been unable to serve their clientele thanks to your timefog."

"Very good. I physically desire to cut my heart out when I think of all the cracks they caused the Tree."

He closes my pile with a flourishing gesture and a King of hearts. "You did warn them."

"I wished not to create the timefog. Leaves me loose ends to tie together if not cracks, but at least it is easier to fix. Any other reports?"

Just as he's about to answer and place a pile to progress my 6 of spades, he drops them and closes his eyes. I wait, a tincture of dread and excitement bubbling in my belly.

Edgwen grins and meets my gaze. "He requests a meal with you."

My heart leaps in bounds just as much as it plummets onto stone ground. "I accept. Bring us some dinner, M'dear. The best as usual."

"Of course, my Queen," he says, then he's up and running towards the kitchen.

I rise from my seat, staff in hand, then trail down the pathway laid out for me, which now fluctuates between colors as prone to doing when my most hated and loved visitor comes. A mist gathers before my eyes, and I halt in the spot I always wait. He appears in the midst of a flash of light.

"Ah, Prince of Chaos, your entrance is lavishing as usual."

His grin lights up my whole throne room. "Lavishing is my nature, darling."

There's that mischievous smile that makes my eyes water and those warm eyes that swell a feeling of hiraeth into my bones. I hold on tighter to my staff. "I would not have you any other way. What bargain need you this time?"

My father from a different time strides closer until there is but two feet between us, and I know he can see the conflicting storms behind my eyes.

He always sees, but he does not always care.

The closeness both soothes my charred heart and unsettles me, because no matter the incarnation I meet, he either knows he is my father and neglects child-me according to his father's/brother's curse, or he knows not at all and cares for me as if I were his world.

I wish I could hate each, but this one...this one is different. In the cosmic weavings of all the dimensions of Yggdrasil hidden inside its massive Roots, this version of him is the first to play with fire but not become burned – he _is_ the fire.

Perhaps that is why he had been chosen among all the other versions of him, why the shifting conscience of Yggdrasil allowed me to accept his first bargain in the greenish-grey sands of Svartalfheim.

It takes all my strength, Seidr too, to keep myself from accepting the embrace he's offering behind his own eyes. Even his fingers have a softness to their movement, as if ready to embrace—no, cradle me the second I inch a toe closer.

And I just want to more than anything in the world but the second he holds me is the second I lose myself and everything I've built in his arms before I lose him too.

I can't. Not the fathers who know who I am and forget me, or the ones who don't yet love me more than themselves.

"I must ask for your favor again. I require another recruit."

Edgwen begs for a pardon as he brings us a tray filled with wines and silver covered plates and moves chairs for us to sit. Loki asks him to join, but he politely refuses, saying there is an overflow of dead that must be herded through the gates.

I notice Edgwen's skin uncurl itself back against the sections that remain. His hair softens into silk as he leaves us. Then, Loki rings my arm inside his. I hold my breath to keep from reacting any other way. He walks us towards the set table filled with scarlet red, tinted green, and twinkling silver.

"I hope you don't mind my healing spell."

"No, not at all," I manage somehow.

"If you want him to live longer then he will need to be transferred into a new body." His Seidr stirs like a contained, agitated ocean underneath his skin; body shifts in an elegant, bursting rhythm. I can feel his quiet strength bleed onto my arm. He causes the colors below us to stand still. "There is only so much resewing even an Aesir body can handle."

I close my eyes, willing this moment to last me centuries. Mist wells up on its own.

I register that we've sat down when his hands cover mine. "Hela, you mustn't weep. There is a way to fix your friend." All I can do is smile at the true empathy in those blue irises I am so accustomed to seeing indifference and even dismay from. He slowly smiles as well, the tenderness reaching up into his otherwise cold eyes. He squeezes my hands before he focuses on the trays covering our table. He uncovers one plate with a bewildered tot's grin.

"Oh. My. Look at this utter beauty." There's four thin flakes of light pink meat curled into the shape of roses with dyed speckles of red, green, blue, and yellow here and there. Deep purple and red potatoes mingle inside the square those four create, with beige truffles from Nidavellir carved into the shape of stars in children's stories contrasting the dark colors. Then there are autumn colored string beans arranged like a blazing fire around the meat and potatoes, with pieces of golden corn set on top of melted brown sugar to look like sparks escaping from the fire. Loki just stares with his fork frozen in hand. "He is a genius. How am I supposed to eat this?"

I uncover my own, a whole different but just as stunning design, which leaves him speechless again. "Once you take a bite you shan't be able to stop," I say and dig in for myself.

While my beloved visitor savors his first few bites, I pour us Elven wine and crack some burned sugar shards into it, until our drinks look and smell like just-ripe oranges in the midst of Alfheim's eternal season between spring and winter.

"Concerning your new recruit, I take it you have one in mind?" He nods, stealing a sip of freshly mixed wine. "What is different about this one then?"

He takes a moment to savor the priceless wine, then refocuses on the matter at hand. "He was annihilated by the Orb. That alone tests the skills of my reviving Seidr, but should he be called back together then the reviver would need to travel into the Void."

"I see." Oh I know what happened when he fell into it. T'was the first time I spoke to him. He didn't have half the mind to comprehend a word. "So he has not quite passed. What was his title?"

He swirls his wine in circles, watching the quaint fizz layer form on top from the burned sugar. "Ronan the Accuser. My, this is fascinating. I never thought to add this to Elvish wine."

That first part makes me stop chewing. I stare at him to see if he is joking, but there is no sign that he is. Just that reveling glint in his eyes that always loves to push boundaries alongside fascination with my cook's skills.

I do not know why it still amazes me to see how far this father of mine will go to achieve his ends. This certainly is not the first time I have been shocked by his so-called "plans." After all, more than half the time I know he's bluffing.

"I recall his personage. You understand that should I revive him he will retain all his memories and emotions, correct?"

"Indeed."

"And you understand that he was not one who tolerated being told what to do, correct?"

"Indeed."

I can't help but chuckle at his air of fearlessness. "Loki, I am trying to tell you to leave him be. This is a sour idea. There must be another recruit you can summon."

"Hela darling—" that makes my skin crawl in every good way "—when have I ever scrapped a plan even if it was a terrible one? You of all souls should know that. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

I close my eyes and down my glass of wine all at once, then I rise. "Well then, let me start the tracking spell. Sit tight. It will take a while to find all his pieces."

. . .

 **TBC**


	5. Ronan l

**5\. RONAN l**

"Rise, guardian," hums a voice, then it escalates into the sound of sea serpents hissing in a chorus, saying words I have never heard before.

Before was?  
. What?  
Gamora. Raccoon. Walking tree.  
. _Dance off?_

"Come, Ronan of the Kree, from ashes to form," that voice that still sounds like snakes whispers. "By the Queen of Helheim, rise!"

I - I do  
I do NOT  
I do not understand.

I must  
I must be amiss  
I must be, no, missing something.

Stay.  
. Wait.  
What?  
. Stone.

Oh, my head is splitting.  
. Head.  
Feeling.  
. Woman.  
Exhausted.  
. Dead.

"Welcome back, villain. Meet your Captain."

My legs (right?)  
. Moving  
Why am I getting taller?  
. Ouch!

Hands.  
. Not falling.  
Holding.

Eyes look.  
. Black hair.  
Blue eyes.  
. Stone jaw.  
Cold, cold ones.  
. Green. Much green.

"Hello, my friend. It will take a few days for your body to readjust to being."

Saint.  
. Being?  
Devil.  
. What?  
Ouch, my head.

He helps me down onto something and I am not so tall anymore, but halfway short. Green bends down in front of me, taking my arm and looking at it as if scrutinizing a masterpiece.

Masterpiece. Why  
. is he so

 _. . . . small?_

"I have him steady for you, but I recommend you do not leave his side for a week," the woman who does not sound like snakes anymore says.

Green nods. "I see." I do not feel it but I see his fingers tracing a billion veins that look more like skin cracks. Like scullery shatters in a million webs. I was...shattered. "Fascinating." He sets my arm down and peers up at me. His eyes bleed 'fascinating' too. "What of his conscience?"

The woman plops down on the ground next to him. She waves a glowing stone away into a storage dimension with clammy hands like raven claws.

 **W** - **I** \- **T**

- **C** \- **H** \- **_C_**

 ** _R_** \- **_A_** - **_F_** \- **_T_** \- _**!**_

"More of it is intact than we can see. He is aware of what is happening. His thoughts and memories are on the clunky, disoriented side however, were less so before he rejoined his body; just a matter of time. As I said you need to be with him until the piecing together takes full effect."

Pieces.  
. Piecing.  
I was pieces.  
. Why?

I feel something heavy inside my mind, so so heavy but like a spark of light. Green smiles; blinks - the weight is gone.

He holds up a hand where a violet crystal appears. It glows like it is on fire, but his skin does not burn.

Burning.  
. Xandar.  
My...my...  
. What was it?!

Upon his hand appear two blackish-grey shells as well. They twirl towards the violet crystal as if to encase it.

Wait. Encased crystal.  
I - I have that memory.

In his other hand materializes a massive hammer, one end that looks like a square then the other something different. There are two lines running around it from the middle of the long and short sides.

He waves and the encased crystal is freed again, then he slams the brilliant thing into the side of the hammer. I panic because it looks like it is gone, but I do not once I see the lines carved inside the hammer begin glowing with that same color.

I remember.  
. Chitauri.  
Xandar.  
. Kree Empire.  
Blasted treaty.

Thanos.  
Thanos whose neck I want to break.  
Whose vile throne of the outlanders I will take and make into something useful.

I am Ronan the Accuser! There will be nothing that will keep me from destroying that infernal Titanian, no idiot show or team or power.

Tiny green catches me from falling again.  
Apparently I must wait for my diabolical schemes but I need not to.

"Easy, easy."

"I must incinerate Thanos!"

And green looks so much bigger than he is with that look. His razor sharp and almost empty eyes; his contorted smile; his skin of white fire with a shadow passing over it. "Give it time my friend. Let that anger move you more."

 **Respect.**

. . This saint;

. . . . this devil. I do.

. . Just **H i m.**

Dead woman rises. She sheds her holed and burned dress. A wool undergarment keeps her warm.

She moves to pick up shattered pottery and loose pages from books all about the dank room. "I suggest you borrow another sorcerer with a niche power, just in case some of my strings unwind."

Green rises, still holding me steady. "Would a reality bender be good enough?"

She stops reaching for a broken candelabra. Something wicked comes from her smile.

"Yes, of course."

. . .

 **TBC**


	6. Doctor Strange l

A/N: I wrote this Doctor Strange around the time of Civil War. He is similar in personality to canon but his history and powers are a little different. Hoping you all like this one too.

* * *

 **6\. DOCTOR STRANGE l**

"Mr. Strange, if you wish to continue hosting more of your fairy friends then you must sign the Sakovia Accords."

I chuckle, put my legs up on my tattered desk, and relax every deserving muscle. "Quite interesting...this new development. I assumed these calls were S.H.I.E.L.D. bluffing. Now I'm sure they're S.H.I.E.L.D. bluffing."

The woman on the other line doesn't react as expected. "It seems you do not understand our warning. Let me rephrase that: If you continue to host your extraterrestrial friends, hostile or not, even for one more day after this call, you will be incarcerated by S.H.I.E.L.D.. However, if you sign the Accords and providing further investigation makes us confident in your morality, leadership, and abilities, then you would be approved to continue as before under supervision."

"Listen, Agent Rhode, I've been in my little cave for a decade, which is - mind you - longer than S.H.I.E.L.D. has been pulling metahuman strings. Never have I had to ask permission to use my powers, never will I agree to do that, so go right ahead and put me on the blacklist. I'm planning on moving somewhere else anyways." I speak over her insistence. "Also, tell your new director that I am not a superhero. He or she or it can go ask their poster boys to save the day. They're probably more open to your inhibiting terms. _Byyyye_."

Ha. Superhero. Me? Good one. I hope she heard the slam.

"Right. Time to stop procrastinating on the packing." I get up and stroll to meet my quaint pack of "faeries" which are actually A.I. beings created from years of blending the boundaries between the physical and astral forms. They're built from the cornerstones of the core four emotions: happiness, sadness, fear, and anger. "Joy, get all our things ready. We're moving to Russia."

The spirit built on happiness nods in it's always present...well, joy. "Yes, sir. Russia sounds splendid."

"I've heard it is. How's the weather looking in Yakutsk?"

"Daytime averages 20ºC; nighttime 5ºC. Winter forecast averages -56ºC daytime and -70ºC at night."

"Anything I should be worried about, Ophelia?"

The spirit built on fear shakes it's head. "Minor reports of neo-KGB violence and political debates abound, but nothing to fret about for a ten mile radius from the location you have selected."

"Fantastic. I feel the pleasant shivers already."

"Quite, Master Strange," says Deville, "Should we encounter problems they will be taken care of swiftly."

"Go for it, just don't get me sued our first month there. Did you know that human minds function better in colder environments?"

"Yes, sir," say all four in union.

I laugh at myself. "Of course I've told you before. Silly me, you'd think an ex-neurosurgeon wouldn't forget. Oh well."

Llorona raises a finger. "To be fair, sir, you have been exposed to extremely traumatic events. Even a mind as expanded as yours has its faults."

If you call losing the ability to work with your hands when once upon a time you were a brain surgeon 24/7 extreme trauma, then you're underestimating. True trauma began with The Ancient One.

"Would you like us to begin deleting our data and logs?"

"No, I will do that, Joy. I have nothing better to do. But do hurry the packing up, I want us to be gone by the morrow."

"Yes, sir."

So that is how I find myself doing the tedious task of erasing all proof that Stephen Strange ever existed in New York. Which is not too difficult of a task when one went from mega millionaire to homeless beggar to foreign living and then to a shut in recluse in the span of years. That just means not many people cared to keep me in much.

Of course a buzzer has to go off. The sudden alert makes my fingers slip across the computer monitor, archiving a file that was supposed to be shredded.

"Hell. What is that racket for this time? I'm moving." After downing a mouthful of coffee, I prepare to dig into my winding archives. One of the spirits nears the emergency alert monitor. I may not be a hero, but I do like to know of any ozone infiltrations and reality warps on my planet, especially after last time. Also, I may or may not have named the software EMERYS. Because it sounds better than E.A.M..

"It appears a swarm of galaxy vermin have infiltrated the ozone."

To confess how much I dislike those cracking, seething insects as big as school buses is impossible. They have no brain, but they have quite a stomach. The whole world's population doesn't even come close to their appetite.

I abandon my just-begun search for the file. "Fine. Where are they landing?"

"Uptown New York."

With a twist of the air I materialize there in my astral form. Thick groups of people pass in all directions, buildings reach for the sky, birds fly. It's minuscule reality manipulating really. The only consequence is the cold spot passersby feel if they walk through me. Can't be too careful about who see you these days.

I peer up at the clear blue skies. "Could you be more specific?"

"Negative, sir. They fly slower than the speed of sound on monitor, but EMERYS' assessment detects them moving at the speed of light. A strange contradiction."

"Strange is my last name. Strange is fun," I quip, turning to the skyscrapers of my home city splitting into two parallel dimensions on my queue. I reach up and bring the now vulnerable sky down.

That is all there is however. Not a trace of anything out of this world.

"Nothing. Read me EMERYS' report." I flick the sky back up, and it molds into place again like a blanket, then I snap New York back into its place like a puzzle. That was some stronger bending; passersby hold onto streetlights and chairs and each other. "On second thought, don't say anything."

I close my eyes and breathe. Feel the rush of lights passing like dull knives across my shoulders. With a wave, everything animate and not becomes streams and strands of glittering lights. I can see every corner of my home according to the presence and absence of rays of light. Still, behind the gloomy gold falling from the sky to the quiet grey bouncing off concrete to the fiery shoots of red and green and yellow bending off windows of shops and diners and hotel windows, there is no trace of any paradoxical shadow.

With a deep exhale, I let complete life paint the spanning canvas of Earth again, then zero in on the fluctuating threads of sound instead. I pluck and pull one by one and listen second by second. First, I take one with long wavelengths that cuts the corner of the pizza parlor across the street.

"Look, I don't see why we can't get another cat. Nine is not enough."

If I could have a moment to roll my eyes then I would. I let it go on its way, reaching for a peaking red rising higher than the maze of sounds. With the central channel opened, a mess of hundreds of other sounds echo through.

" _I feel it in my bones, enough to make my systems blow._ Come on Colombia!"

" _Welcome to the new age,_ " screams/yells hundreds of different college voices.

As much as I would enjoy a free Imagine Dragons concert, now is not the time. I let that one go too, searching for one that would be not as quiet but not too loud either.

Surprising fact: these half blind and all deaf galaxy vermin can't be seen unless they have a shadow. Everything, from their twenty eyes to their mouths that stretch as long as two cars put together to the antennas you'd think help them hear in some form but actually help them smell have skin of flaky glass. They reflect light, hide in plain sight, but you'll never see them. It is the sound of their wings that leads to their presence...or bizarre shadows if they're close to a skyscraper.

All told I pull at least sixty strands. They're either white noises like beeping crosswalks or nails tapping against phone screens or pebbles crushing under shoes or jeans brushing together or mild noises like car engines and brakes screeching and printers printing. From where I stand in the midst of a cross-hatched nest of sound waves, I find none that look or sound close to an alien invader.

I shut my eyes for a moment, then I am back inside my little cave when I open them again. My hands tingle from the separation of body and soul. "Nothing."

"Indeed, sir. It appears to have been a false alarm."

"Right." Which I mean is wrong of course. EMERYS never triggers a false alarm. "Run a sweep for antimatter would you, Deville? Or something close to the structure."

"Margin of error to consider, sir?"

"Give or take 30%... Got it?"

"It appears so." Deville waves to Llorona. "Would you come check me?"

Ah, yes, the system of checks and balances. Any major decisions require their checking partner to approve. You would think I'd set happiness to check sadness and fear to check anger, but anger is a deeper form of sadness, and sadness holds closer to reality than happiness and fear do in a morbid way. Then fear is a complete lack of happiness - isn't even it's opposite - so of course Joy can always be checked into balance.

"Yes," confirms Llorona, "It appears there is an entity of similar structure."

"In the sky?"

A.I.s that always know just what to say hesitate."It's shifting, sir."

I stop feeling the waves of mellow winds outside for slight changes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Come see for yourself," say all four at once after stepping away from EMERYS.

Sure enough, EMERYS' monitor traces a looming shadowed figure. A blob of magic defying existence if you will. It sort of walks the streets of Manhattan, stalking closer and closer to my home.

And it is not just any magic. Not of the Earth, not of Realm Bending, not of Dimension Travel. Nothing close. This is one of the oldest, second only to the power of Infinity Stones and Celestials and the Three Norns. Lovely chills trickle down my spine. _This_ is my kind of strange.

I catch a flicker of blue flames in the corner of my eyes at the same time EMERYS locks on the signature. It plants its feet in my not-so-little basement.

"Master Strange—"

"Shh," I turn ever so slowly. "We have a special guest."

There, reclining against the shadows, stands the man who scrambled humanity's sanity. The end of the world as we knew it once upon four years ago did come the summer of 2012. Where once we only worried about battling each other in the shadows of alleys, in the face of rogue gangs, and behind podiums in Washington, D.C., he came to enlighten us of the thousands of other creatures, all bigger, faster, and stronger than us.

"Shadows aren't still your playground, are they?"

Loki does not so much as blink. "Red capes are not very original. Don't match well with the blue either."

I grin. "Anything else?"

The god of Asgard kicks himself off the wall. Foggy light catches the dull shine of a black leather trench coat, and the pure black hand-sewn tunic top underneath it. He's all shadows minus two pairs of green stripes running across his shoulders and a black opal half circle interrupted by opened buttons on the chest of his coat.

Man, this cat always lands on his feet.

"I have plenty more to say." He stops inches away from me. "For example: only the insane would wear blue and red with the fine bronze of an Infinity Stone's encasement, which brings me to my next point: only the intellectually impaired would wear an Infinity Stone, period."

"What, you're not going to comment about the high collar?"

"I am not fond of their childish appearance anymore."

"Well, would you like a drink to wash my fashion sins away then? Make your pop-in a little more tolerable?"

I hear the rustle of leather as he fastens his hands behind his back. "I would rather drink your sour mortal blood."

Bingo. "Would you like it poured into a hot bowl or as an icicle?" And I'm so frustrated that all I get is one corner of his lips to twitch. He doesn't even _almost_ reply to that. "What, cat got your tongue?"

"How could I catch my own tongue?"

I feign a sharp inhale. "Does that make me the mouse?"

"Quite, because you scurry in circles of pointless words. Come now, ex-neurosurgeon, why would a Norse God appear again at the sight of his crime scene?"

I walk a while off, grinning and shaking my head. "Well you're sure not here to see the roses of the graves you dug. Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

"Then what am I here for?"

"I take it you still don't, then;" so I pour myself a spirit and turn to see him peering at EMERYS and my spirits. "Do you like them? I guarantee you S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark's playthings don't come near to their abilities."

His lazy gaze travels around the room until it meets mine again. "Mortals - still so quick to applaud themselves."

I plop down on my couch, downing a big mouthful of bubbly spirit. "Of course you say that. You believe opening night is when the applause must come."

Now that makes him smile. Like a siren who knows her deadly song has been heard.

He takes painfully slow steps closer to me. "What constitutes opening night then?"

"Your game of course."

He brings the folds of his coat closer to his body as he sits in front of me, on my coffee table, when there are free chairs everywhere.

"My game," he repeats, not quite mulling over the idea but not quite disowning it either.

"Don't be so coy, I've seen the footage and the papers, Odinson." I set my empty glass to his side and lean closer, until our knees touch. Eye to eye, leather to leather, sorcerer to sorcerer. "Your first little attack was nothing but a little brawling. Clearly you didn't want to destroy good 'ol New Mexico. Your goal was Thor after all. You know S.H.I.E.L.D. had a meaty 200 page report about those ten minutes between you two."

Humor embeds itself into his calm face. He soaks in my every word.

"Then comes 2012. You put on quite a grand entrance in S.H.I.E.L.D., take the Tesseract and a few brainwashed henchmen, then show Stuttgart a wonderful time. In a costume, mind me. You then give yourself up to The Avengers and your brother only to be whisked away by your secret team. Space portal opens, Chitauri fly free, everything's right and _you_." I watch my golden spirit twirl in my glass. "You barely lift a finger.

"You know, it took me over two dozen times of viewing all the records and stories of you to catch your drift. You talked so much, like...an actor. You talked and talked about ruling soiled Midgard but when it came time to conquer, you were shooting pathetic Chitauri bullets out of their small flying automobiles. Lost your all-powerful 'glow stick of destiny' too; how convenient. And that whole monologue to that green freak? Well...

"Now tell me if I'm wrong dear, but say you really did want Earth, would you really make it so obvious? And dramatic? And—here's the kicker— _fail_ at it?"

He shrugs with the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You tell me."

Then something odd happens. I see something like the flicker of a spark behind ten layers of bed sheets stream underneath his skin. A weird sensation that I'm not quite seeing him settles next. I pretend I need another glass, so I get up to go pour myself another. While the drink pours, I zero in on sound. The steady rhythm of his breath is there - I can hear the leather and tweed bending and crinkling - but I don't hear _him_.

"Certain you don't want one?" I ask, turning for a moment.

He's grinning, manically. It's the most unsettling thing ever. Seeing that on a screen in pictures and videos isn't as mortifying as one of those in person, but at least he's not looking at me. I hurry up and set my drinks down. Anymore of it and I won't be able to follow his lead.

"So you wanted me to tell you. Here it is: Once upon a time I didn't believe in fairy tales about chakra and spiritual energy and _magic_. Then a car accident crushed my hands. I couldn't even move them, feel them." I lean on the bar as I watch him. His eyes stare deeply into the wall, but there's more of a regular smile now. "I explored everywhere to find a fix, tried everything, and the only fix came from The Ancient One. You know that old soul taught me all I know: reality bending, dimension travel, the power of a science not yet explained. And then you know what happened next? I had a bit of a showdown, a little row with a certain Earth bender. I won, but something irked me.

"I asked myself how could there be such strong sorcerers on my home planet if there weren't stronger ones out there, outside my quaint little ozone. That's what started the digging; I started backwards. Devoured everything about Baron, S.H.I.E.L.D., the Mandarin, Hydra, the Winter Soldier, You, Red Skull...and then I went back to you.

"There was something that didn't add up about you. You came here twice but left a failure each time. So, what is a man supposed to do? Research. I bought out Barnes and Noble's Norse Legends sections, picked up every single novel, fictional or not, about you from brick and mortar bookstores, pirated each ebook spanning the Internet—didn't care which language—and read until line after line about the so-called God of Mischief poured out of my ears, until I could almost feel the conundrum that is you incarnate."

His gaze flickers towards me. I notice he's rubbing the wrist of his left arm, but it seems he doesn't notice he's doing that.

"I pieced together a different character than the myths say: a Master of Seidr, a mind as rich as all the forests of the universe put together, cunning...oh so cunning. Patient, too, more patient than anyone gives him credit for. Now that I know so much about you, I find that I know even less about your true intentions. All I know is New Mexico, New York, they were never your game. Someone else's, yes, but not quite yours. Even if they were yours then they were just you tipping off your stage hat, the warm up to the real show."

He rises, but stands where his feet land, freakishly still. "I'm impressed."

I nod, pretending to tip my nonexistent hat towards him. "So I'm right."

He almost laughs. "I said I was impressed."

"Which, according to our context, means I'm right. No one says they're impressed if the person they didn't expect to be right isn't right."

He starts walking closer, his arms languidly crossed and expression as calculated as ever. "There is the exception of neutral thought."

"Which means what?"

He stops, grinning in such a way that he means everything and anything and nothing. "I'm impressed."

God, I envy how pokerfaced he and his sentences are. "What is your truth then? What have I missed?"

"Plenty and nothing."

"You just love your riddles," I grumble.

"Riddles are poetry. I speak in fragments."

"Can I ask you a question then?"

He shrugs. "You _could_..."

" _May_ I ask you a question?"

"Yes you may, two in fact."

"Two? Why not four?"

"If I answer then you cannot ask me others."

"You already answered."

"I warned."

Two can play at this game. "Tell me about your true game then."

"I need exceptionally brilliant people to play on my board."

I figured that much. "I guess you want me to play."

And his chin rises, which makes his mischievous eyes look more cynical than I've ever seen. "It is, as you mortals say, _bingo._ "

Might as well bite my luck. "What will your little team be?"

"There is no word for us."

"Make one up."

I see flickers in his focused eyes as his cogs whirl. "Anti-villains," he says at once, all confidence and no bluffing.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Come and find out."

"To where?" I ask, getting closer.

"No more questions."

"Why."

"Say yes and you will know, in time."

"In how much time will I know?"

"No more questions, Strange."

I so envy the fact that he's two damn inches taller than me.

"And if I ask why you would want _me_ to join, you're still going to say 'no more questions.'"

"Thus the child finally learned how to walk."

So a sole question remains: follow or let him forever remain a mystery. I'm not fond of mysteries.

"Fine, I'll join your little game, as long as there's no killing."

"Sure," he says, eyes flickering to the four spirits. "How is the weather in France?"

...

 **TBC**


	7. Guillotine l

**7\. GUILLOTINE l**

The Feeling rises from the tip of my toes until it washes over the top of my head, then it swamps my throat. It is _La Fleur du Mal's_ burning blood craving, a shared torture the sentient sword of my ancestors enjoys to make me suffer through until Her thirst is quenched.

The Feeling is anything but bearable.

I bolt upright from the midst of my cocoon spun with patchwork blankets and stumble through the dark gasping and croaking at the lava in my throat until I ram into the sink in my kitchenette. I scoop tingling cold water into my palms and drink like a mad animal until the mind trick She plays washes away...for now.

Knowing full well that She would bring it back, I trip through the pitch of night until I find a chair, and reel it in next to the sink. My head pounds. Her fury makes my bones melt.

 _ **Come here toi fille. You cannot ignore who you are bound to.**_

Sure I can, just by laying my head on the edge of the rusty sink. Simple, actually.

Having cursed myself with _La Fleur du Mal_ twelve years ago - quite a case of curiosity killed the cat - I know She is not distracted when Her hunger mood strikes. No _monsieur_ , not by a grain of sand. I expect Her to chide me and my "mortal female weaknesses," then bludgeon me with stories of my opposite sex ancestors on their flashy, "heroic" quests for blood-baths. _Le démon!_ She relishes those gruesome memories down to the goriest detail. Then I would find my defiance wasn't worth it because her craving increases threefold when She recalls her past wielders who were much more open to serving Her every whim.

See, I may be a vigilante by dusk and an indie photographer that prefers capturing blood red skies to a beach at dawn, but that does not mean I am willing to massacre a whole gang of city terrorists. Well...not again. She tells me over and over that those cancers of the world deserved every slash, but there is a fine line between justice and manslaughter. For all I know, She can start saying wailing kids deserve to be cut in half.

I peer up into the cracked mirror, where simple darkness meets me. Why is She quiet? Though I have never had the luxury of this silence, a quiet eeriness taints the damp, stiff air that was not there before.

"It is nothing. _Oin, rien._ "

But as I'm repeating that to myself I snatch my poor excuse of a hand sewn jacket, fetch a candle, and prepare for the worst.

I find Her in Her wooden box that She has opened Herself. That is not the strange part. What is? She glows bright crimson from the tip of her coal pommel to Her never dull, bloodstained point as if She had just been fed. Her vibranium double edges shimmer with meager moon and candlelight she's trapping. There are no chef's compliments or criticisms, but there is Her faint song echoing around the crumbling red brick walls.

She has hummed Her song but once, and it was to lure my earliest ancestor. She had glowed like this before, but it was to attract a new host. Neither apply now.

" _Fleur,_ what are you doing?"

She says nothing, just keeps on glowing. I pivot around the room; my candle flame rides the packed air. It keeps on getting denser from the focus of two predators until taking one step in any direction makes me feel like I'm bumping into a sea of brutal people.

" _Fleur,_ who else is here?" I demand in a much more controlled way than I feel.

Her mind-bending song amplifies as She moans as if Her belly aches in satisfied fullness. Or cravings. Yes, She craves someone in particular. Through the corner of my eye I catch the outline of a grim shadow. I fling my flaming candle toward it and get ready to pounce the trespasser who should catch fire, but the light sizzles and fades completely as if the shadow is made of water. A soft glow over a palm rises instead. It becomes a shifting swirl of light that grows and grows until the shadow is—

 _Fleur_ flies into my reaching hand.

"Go to your own hell, _démon_. This one is mine."

She shines like fire when Her tip touches skin. _**Yes, child. Give me a droplet.**_

I indulge her enough to hold Her tip to his neck, right under the calm notch that carries his venomous voice. _Le démon_ raises both hands. The strong yet quiet chuckles in his throat vibrate in my palm.

"So eager," he teases, his eyes defying the position I trapped him in to find me again. "I must confess I know not which of you is the more impatient one."

"I wonder if you know that the more you talk, the greater the chance that She will cut those silver chords of yours."

He grins, releasing a well-entertained sigh. I feel _Fleur_ pulling Herself deeper into his neck.

"Come now, you would let your blade cut your innocent visitor?"

"No, I let Her cut _chiennes_."

All my fingers want to do is drive _Fleur_ into his neck, but I find myself taking Her one tiny step away. I would prefer no violence tonight.

Loki raises his arms slowly, gentles the wickedness in his smile as if he knows. "So you have heard of me."

"Germany is my neighbor, the USA my dreamland; I know very well who you are."

"And what do you say my name is then? Other than your two very derogatory labels."

 _ **Closer. Closer. Insanités!**_

I resist _Fleur's_ pull towards his unfettered artery only to find Her explosive cravings soaking into my mind. He smells like orange blossom honey combs and warm Hawaiian sweet rolls and dark Ferrero Rocher and oiled red potatoes with just the perfect touch of soy sauce bitterness and saltiness — all delicious foods of the wealthy.

Oh, to sink my teeth in his naked neck. To feel the burst of hot liquid against my cheeks. To feel it gush on my tongue and trickle its way down my throat. To rip deeper and deeper until his blood is my clothes, until I become him for a moment.

This is Her design.

She drops from my hands the second before I move to tackle him and clatters to the ground while I bolt for the bathroom. I don't make it that far, so I end up opening a window to retch and gag until I finally get sick. My knees let out once the feeling passes.

I crumble to catch my breath against the swollen wall of my disheveled apartment. It is minutes later that he follows me with _La Fleur_ in hand. He turns on the light that I swear shines brighter than the bulbs really are, so I squint and blink away tears, struggling to keep my eyes on him for the first few moments.

He twists _Fleur_ to see her edges shine in the light. "She is such a fascinating weapon."

"You cannot have Her."

His gaze flies toward me. He almost looks offended. "I couldn't possibly. I cannot hear Her." He tosses Her up and catches Her in his other hand. "Well, I _can_ hear Her hunting song. Enthralling to say the least."

I get back on my wobbling legs and rip _Fleur_ from his grasp. "Get out. Go far away. You're not welcome here."

"Else what?" he says, devious smile rising again.

"Do not tempt me, _démon_."

"Therein lies the contradiction. If you truly wanted me gone then you would have fed your blade already. You want to know why I am really here, do you not?" I just give him my best disgusted stare. "Indeed you do even if you told yourself otherwise. You want something as I want something."

I grit my teeth. Oh, to plunge _Fleur_ into his remorseless, aggravating face. "What do you want?"

"You," he says with the coldest voice and face I have ever seen. From mischief to heartlessness in a blink...like curtains plunging from their hangers. He sets his hands behind his back and closes the flaring gap between us. All I can do is stand up taller and keep on glaring at him while hiding my trembling hands closer to me and behind _Fleur's_ hilt.

"You are nothing more than a hated vigilante in your own country. You fight battles no one wants you to win at night, including your partner, then you are a niche photographer no one wishes to publish come daytime. Is that to be your legacy, Lady Sauvage? Is your Sword to play with your mind the rest of your days without recompense in this life or after?"

I don't know what is worse: that he knows so, so much about me or that everything he's saying is true. I squeeze _Fleur_ tighter and take a step back only to stumble into my stupid couch.

I swing Her up again, inches from his neck again as I scramble into as alpha of a position as I can, one to somehow match his soaring height. " _Fleur_ was never my plan. I am cursed with Her because I was a foolish child."

"This sword," he looks down at Her for a minute with all the lust of the world in his eyes. His fingers rise and hover as if he does want Her to cut him. "This ancient, ravishing sword belonged to Tyre, the War Dwarf of Nidavellir. She saved an entire realm from falling into ashes at that hands of Vanaheim a hundred millennium ago yet you call Her a curse." He glances at me over the length of _Fleur_. "You know nothing about Her, nor what you owe the Dwarfs for your privilege."

I can't help but double take between him and _Fleur_. He gestures with his fingers before I can talk, so I find myself muted.

"Come fight in a battle you will not regret, child. Put your combat and your _curse_ into better use, where your talents will be appreciated. You may ask me two questions, two alone."

He blinks and the muting spell is lifted. "What kind of war are you fighting: petty 'enslave those under me' or a proper 'save the world' war?"

He grins. "What war?"

"That is not an answer, _démon_. You said I would battle."

"But it is my answer. Battles needn't include wars."

I make _Fleur_ brush his cheek. He doesn't as much as shiver yet She glows and hums to a new intensity. "Tell me the honest truth or so help me Odin I will cut your head off."

He laughs. "You silly mortal. You think me afraid of you? I, a god who could but blink and suck the life force out of you."

I do want to kill him. "You wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because you said so yourself: you need me."

His smile falls slightly. "Correction: I said I wanted you. I never _need_ anyone. So what is it going to be? Another question, accepting my proposal, or the one whose name starts with a 'J' and ends with '-eannine' dies?"

I lower _Fleur_ so I can stare him in those Arctic blue eyes. There has to be a horrible agenda. There has to be some way to pry it out of him. "Will you protect Earth if I join your little games?" There. He won't bend to that.

He takes a few humored moments before he says, "I will."

Now he's crossing a line. Now he's just pulling my strings. "I don't believe you."

"Then what will make you believe me?"

I glare at him. Closely. What the hell is he doing? "Resurrecting the hundreds you killed," I spit. "And kissing all their feet, _vous dégoûtant bête_. That would."

He watches me for what feels like centuries. Testing me. Stretching my anger. Then, his hand flies up to _Fleur's_ blade. He cuts through his own skin with a suave glide, lighting Her into a blade of flaming embers when drops of him soak into Her. A shock cuts through the air the second he frees his hand.

 _Fleur's_ hilt tears through my skin with searing heat. I drop Her, screaming and cursing and crying all at once.

He seizes my wrist before the shock of the burn can settle properly. All of my fear freezes in my throat. I swear I see the want for chaos in his eyes. I swear I see him dreaming of wrapping his hands around my throat. Yet he tips closer, bringing my burning hand up. Half of the sight is his emotionless face and the other is _Fleur's_ fire revealing the bones under my melting skin.

"I want you to play my game," he whispers just as new skin yawns across my shriveling hand.

My stomach heaves as a whole pond of tears makes my lungs collapse. I stare and stare and stare. At him. "My god."

He stands up straight. "Exactly."

...

 **TBC**


End file.
